Chapter 9 - The Breach
Three days after the gala, a sudden snowstorm hit the city, blanketing Lakeview in a rare layer of white ice.
The storm cut power lines across the district. The estate’s emergency generators kicked on, humming softly in the basement, casting long, warm shadows through the quiet hallways.
Roman was stuck downtown, managing an emergency crisis caused by the freeze at the river shipping yards.
At midnight, Rebecca was in Clara’s suite, checking the battery levels on her heart monitor, when the lights suddenly flickered and went out completely.
Not just the main lights—the emergency backup generators went dead at the exact same moment.
Silence settled over the massive house. Heavy, unnatural silence.
Rebecca’s instincts screamed. She pulled a small flashlight from her pocket, clicking it on.
“Clara,” Rebecca whispered, placing a reassuring hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Stay right here in the bed. Don't move.”
“Rebecca? What’s happening?” Clara asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Just a power outage. I’m going to check the hallway.”
Rebecca stepped out into the dark corridor. Downstairs, she heard the muffled sound of glass breaking, followed by two heavy thuds—the sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Victor Marcone’s men had taken advantage of the snowstorm to cut the estate’s power and security grid.
Rebecca didn't panic. She had lived in dangerous neighborhoods her entire life; she knew how to survive. She ran back into Clara’s room, locked the heavy oak door, and pulled a heavy wrought-iron chair beneath the door handle, wedging it tight.
She guided Clara into the walk-in closet behind a hidden wall of heavy coats. “Sit down, Clara. Keep your hand on your cane. Do not make a sound.”
Footsteps pounded down the hallway outside. Heavy, rough footsteps.
Someone rattled the brass door handle of the bedroom.
“She’s in here!” a voice yelled outside. “Break it down!”
Heavy boots kicked against the oak door. The wood splintered, but the wrought-iron chair held.
Rebecca grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand, standing directly in front of the door, her knees bent, her jaw set, ready to fight with everything she had.
BOOM.
The door burst open, sending wood splinters flying. A large, masked man in tactical gear lunged through the opening, holding a suppressed pistol.
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Rebecca didn't hesitate. She swung the heavy brass candlestick with all her strength, striking the man directly across his jaw. He grunted, stumbling sideways, dropping his gun.
Before his partner could step through the broken door, a thunderous roar echoed through the hallway.
